Betrayal, p.5
Betrayal, page 5
“Still up for lamb chops and roasted potatoes?”
“I’m salivating worse than Pavlov’s dogs when they heard the bell.”
“Dessert?”
“Always.”
“We won’t be able to run our five Ks as we did yesterday.”
Javin shrugged. “We’ll do bodyweight exercises.”
“We’ll need a change of clothes.”
“Yael might know a good place.”
“I’ll ask her. Depending on how long this will take, I think I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Okay. Be safe.”
Claudia walked toward the door, then turned around. “You know something interesting about Pavlov?”
“The drooling dogs guy?”
“Yeah. Most people associate Pavlov with dogs salivating at the sound of a bell. The truth is a bit different. The lab dogs started drooling as soon as they saw the staff in lab coats. Dogs, being smart as they are, realized it was feeding time whenever coats walked in. Lab workers noticed what was going on, but never made the connection, until Pavlov clued in.”
“Wow, I had no idea, but that explains the power of mental association.”
“It does. See you in a bit.”
“All right.”
Javin sat back on the couch. His mind went to what Claudia had said about Pavlov and his research. Javin had noticed that whenever he was dispatched to the Middle East or the Gulf states, his mind switched to a different state of alert. The brain was making mental associations, awakening old experiences, and priming the body to anticipate similar scenarios. Not only his mind, but his body also was getting ready for the new physical reality.
Javin had also noticed that, like drug users, his body and psyche had built up a great tolerance for violence and mayhem, whether he caused them, or were caused by others’ actions or reactions. Once his body was in this new state of readiness, it was as if he were a different man. The deaths of so many people around him seemed to bother him much less than years ago when he had started. Am I . . . am I becoming heartless, like these people I’m hunting for?
He shrugged and sighed. He remembered Steffi, his late wife, telling him that he had changed. He had grown cold, distant. That was about six months before she had the accident, which had happened a little over four months ago. But Javin remembered it as if it were yesterday. He remembered Steffi’s joyful smile; her bright blue eyes . . . He remembered everything.
The snowstorm that fateful night had started around midnight. It was the last time he heard her voice, as they had a short phone call. She wanted to finish her article, which was scheduled to appear on the next day’s front page of the Ottawa Times, the city’s and Canada’s largest daily newspaper. Steffi promised to be home before morning.
She never came back.
Instead, a phone call woke up Javin around five a.m. A horrible accident on Chaudiere Bridge had taken her life. It was so bad they did not allow him to see her body, no matter how hard he insisted.
He sighed and felt his eyes well up. He rubbed them with the back of his hands and drew in a deep breath. Then a thought darkened his face. Steffi’s article. I . . . I don’t remember ever seeing it.
He peered into the distance as his eyes turned into small slits. I was too distraught to pay attention after her passing and the funeral. But her colleagues . . . At the memorial service, a month later, they had prepared an elaborate newspaper mural with cutouts of her major pieces. But . . . this front page article wasn’t there. I . . . I would remember seeing it. Someone would have mentioned that. It was Steffi’s masterpiece. She was so proud of it.
An even darker thought began to weigh heavy on his mind. Did that article have anything to do with Steffi’s “accident”? Or MiC?
MiC was the nickname of someone who had tried to contact Steffi a few days ago. Apparently, MiC was oblivious to the fact of Steffi’s passing. The cryptic Facebook message MiC had sent to Steffi read: “Dear Steffi, sorry I have been incommunicado. I’ve received all your calls, but I was scared to get in touch with you. But no more. Please contact me so we can chat now. You have my number.”
Javin had tried the number, but it was disconnected. He had tried to identify the person behind the MiC handle, but his initial attempts had led nowhere. He had not wanted to start a full-scale reconnaissance operation to discover his or her identity. Javin was not sure it was worth reopening old wounds and bringing back bittersweet memories. But the thought crossing his mind—the possibility that MiC’s reappearance, Steffi’s accident, and her article’s vanishing could all be tied together—and the sizzling eerie feeling at the pit of his stomach had changed his attitude. I’m going to look deeper into this. By starting with her article. Was it ever published?
Javin fired up his laptop, waited until his encrypted connection was active, and began to browse the Ottawa Times website.
Chapter Twelve
Mossad guest apartment
Central Sana, Capital of Yemen
Thirty minutes later, Javin put away the laptop. He had found no trace of the article Steffi had been working on. Maybe she never finished it? Or it wasn’t approved? He thought about the last conversation he had with her. She sounded very much convinced the article was ready to be published. Javin shook his head. No, there’s something not right here.
He stood up and walked to the window. A throbbing headache was developing deep inside his head. He rubbed his forehead, then massaged his temples for a minute. The headache was still there, so he found a couple of Tylenol tablets in his rucksack’s medical kit and swallowed them with a sip of water.
Javin sat on the couch, but before he could return to the laptop, the apartment’s doorbell rang with Claudia’s code: one long ring, followed by two short ones. Then came the rattling of keys, and Javin assumed Yael was letting Claudia in.
He met her in the hall. “Hey, how did it go?”
“Good. Found a soccer jersey store.” Claudia handed him one of the two large plastic bags she was carrying and walked to the dining room. “Got you a Barcelona shirt.”
“Barca?” Javin cocked his head. “You know I’m a Manchester fan.”
“That’s all they had.”
Javin shrugged and held the blue and red shirt in front of him.
Claudia said, “Blue and red looks good on you.”
“And so does just red.”
“Next time. Let’s eat. Lunch’s getting cold.” She began to pull out the plastic containers and the cutlery.
Javin sat across from her. “Mhhhh, this smells so good, especially the lamb.”
“She just made it.”
Javin sank his teeth into a generous portion of the crispy lamb chops. It was juicy on the inside, as he liked it, and soft. He chewed slowly with his eyes closed, enjoying the rich taste. Then he cut into the golden potatoes, and again was delighted by how good they tasted. “This . . . this lady, whoever she is, she’s a great chef.”
Claudia smiled. “It was actually a girl, not older than thirteen, fourteen. But she was working under the coaching of her mom.”
Javin nodded. “This is awesome food.”
Claudia shrugged. “Or maybe you’re just hungry. I don’t find it that spectacular.”
“Maybe it’s you who’s picky.”
“Could be. But I know the dessert is great. I tried it. Actually, I tasted three different kinds before deciding to go with sabayah or honey cake.” She gestured at a small unopened container set to the side. “Six pieces.”
“I’ve tried sabayah before. I love it.”
They ate mostly in silence, and Javin pushed Steffi’s article out of his mind, along with the operation to find and eliminate the Al-Qaeda senior members. He had been trained to compartmentalize and prioritize matters and concerns, so he could keep his sanity. One thing at a time, his mentor, Mark, had often said during training sessions at The Plant, the training facility for CIS recruits. Do one thing at a time, what needs to be done at that moment, and do it well. Then, when finished, you can worry about the next thing.
Javin nodded to himself. Yes, right now, we need to eat and rest. There will be a time when we’ll get back to the op.
* * *
“So, Javin, how are we going to proceed with our op?” Claudia said and took a small bite of the honey cake.
Javin shrugged. “I’m not sure. As much as I hate what Horowitz said, he’s right: We can’t go out until the heat has died down, and we know who’s after us.” He reached for the second to last piece of the cake.
“Oh, this is so drippy.” Claudia leaned forward so the honey from the flaky pastry would not stain her sweater.
“Yeah, but so good.” Javin dipped the piece onto the pool of honey on his side of the plate, then quickly brought it to his mouth. He chewed it slowly, then said, “Once we hear from Martin, we’ll have a better idea of our next steps.”
“You think he’ll have something useful?”
“I hope so. I don’t expect much from the CIA, but those phone numbers in Ahmad’s phone might lead us somewhere.”
“What if we talked to Fuad?”
Javin frowned. “We’re in a worse situation now than when we first arrived in Yemen. You remember how the meeting went, right?”
Claudia shrugged. “Yeah, I remember. How can I forget it? He almost threw us out of the country.”
Javin nodded, and his mind went to the ill-fated meeting with Fuad Al-Worafi, a mid-level intelligence officer with the PSO, Yemen’s feared intelligence service. Shortly after their arrival, Javin and Claudia had met with Fuad in his office, in a low-profile building in downtown Sana. He had been well-mannered and respectful, as Javin had provided him with a brief summary of their operation in Yemen and the objective, as well as some of the intelligence that had led to their assignment.
As it was always the case in Javin’s and Claudia’s corrective operations, they attempted to make contact and work with local intelligence and law enforcement authorities. It made everyone’s job easier, it increased the chances of success, and it provided the necessary cover for the Canadian agents to slip out of the country unnoticed, leaving behind only the corrected situation.
But things started to go sideways when Fuad asked for the name of the asset who had provided the Canadians with that accurate, actionable intelligence. Javin had refused to give Fuad the name of their asset, Ahmad. That refusal had incensed Fuad. He had sprung onto his feet and had shouted at Javin, “You come to my country, ask for my help, then insult me by giving me nothing in return?”
Javin had held Fuad’s fiery eyes for a long moment. “We are giving you everything necessary for the success of this operation. We have the terrorists’ location, and all we need is your support to—”
Fuad had shaken his bald head. “Where are they?”
Javin had not answered right away. He had no reason to believe Fuad would divulge that information to others outside his agency. But in Javin’s experience, there had been many leaks of intelligence, most often from careless operatives working for domestic security services. So Javin had chosen his words carefully and had spoken in a soft tone, “They’re in a safehouse in southern Sana. I’ll give the team the exact location when we—”
Fuad had interrupted him. “Javin, again you’re giving me nothing. You’re asking for a lot, for everything, my men, my commitment, without bringing anything to the table.”
Javin had nodded. “Fuad, this isn’t the first time we’ve worked together. Have I ever misled you or lied to you?”
“I could ask you the same question, Javin.”
“And the answer would be the same: no. This intelligence is solid, and we need to act now, together, so we can catch them.”
Fuad had shaken his head. “No, Javin. Things have changed since the last time you were in Yemen. I have a new director now, and he won’t move a finger until he sees evidence, concrete evidence. Names, locations. He wants facts.”
Javin had shaken his head too. “This is all he gets, Fuad.”
The stalemate had continued for another five minutes, then Javin had decided it was a waste of time. He and Claudia had left the station, as Fuad had shouted they were lucky he was not kicking them out of Yemen.
Two days later, a Special Activities Division team of the Central Intelligence Agency had raided a safehouse in southern Sana, not far away from the real safehouse where the top Al-Qaeda leaders were hiding.
“Javin, what’s on your mind?”
Claudia’s soft voice brought him back from his thoughts. He shrugged, then said, “I was thinking of our meeting with Fuad. If he would have only listened . . .”
“Isn’t that always the case?”
“Not always, but more often than not.”
They finished the rest of the honey cake in silence, then Claudia brewed a pot of coffee. She was almost done when Javin’s phone rang. He had left it on the dining table, next to the empty dishes.
Claudia said, “Is that Martin?”
Javin shook his head, as he did not recognize the ringtone. “No, that’s an unprogrammed number.” He walked to the phone and glanced at the screen. A number starting with 971 and followed by 4. That’s the Emirates. Dubai, I think. He thought about answering as the phone rang again. “Yes, who is this?” he said in a cold tone in Arabic.
“I want to talk to Mr. Pierce. Is this Mr. Pierce?” a firm voice asked in an impatient tone.
Javin frowned. How did they get my number? “Who is this?” he asked again, this time with more insistence.
“Mojtaba, Mojtaba Shirazi. I work for Pasdaran, and I’d like to meet with Mr. Pierce.”
Javin’s frown deepened and formed a V-shaped crease in the middle of his forehead. The man calling himself Shirazi worked for Pasdaran, the Iranian Islamic Revolutionary Guard, the dreaded and all-influential force defending Iran’s Islamic Republic system. It was never good news when an Iranian Pasdaran operative called, especially when he had your name and number. “In relation to?”
“I will tell that to Mr. Pierce.”
“No, you will tell that to me, and I will talk to Mr. Pierce.”
Claudia gave Javin a worried glance.
He mouthed the word “Iranians,” and Claudia’s face also twisted into an intense frown, and she walked to Javin.
A moment of tense pause, then Shirazi said, “All right, listen carefully so you don’t miss a word: My section knows about Mr. Pierce’s operation in Sana, Yemen, and how it has been a failure.”
“What operation?”
“I don’t think I caught your name,” Shirazi said with a tone of annoyance.
“That’s because I didn’t say it, and it’s not important. Now, what operation?”
“The one about capturing the two Al-Qaeda associates.”
“The ones Iran let go, right?”
Shirazi drew in a deep breath. “My service was not involved in that mistake. But tell Mr. Pierce that my section is offering to work with him and his agency to detain or eliminate the terrorists.”
Javin shrugged, then looked at Claudia, who, like him, was listening very attentively to the conversation. “Okay, I will do so. What else can you tell me?”
“That should be sufficient to get his attention. I’m expecting Mr. Pierce’s call in the next hour, or I will conclude he’s not interested in the offer.”
“All right, I will let him know.”
Shirazi hung up without another word.
Javin ended the call, then looked at Claudia. “That was the Iranian Guard. They know about us, and how our operation has gone sideways.”
“How do they know that?”
“Fuad, or someone else in his branch.” Javin cursed whoever had given the Iranians that information.
“But how does Fuad know we’ve been unsuccessful when we haven’t briefed him in days?”
Javin shrugged. “Not sure, but this is very bad.” He speed dialled a number from his phone.
“Who are you calling?”
“Martin. He needs to know and tell us what to do about this Iranian angle.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mossad guest apartment
Central Sana, Capital of Yemen
Martin listened without any interruptions to Javin’s brief narrative, then took a long moment to process the information. “We need everything we can find about this Shirazi character. How does he know about our agency’s op in Yemen, and more importantly, what happens when he and his section ‘work’ with other foreign services.”
“You’re not considering a joint op, are you?” Claudia asked.
“No, it’s too early to think about that. But it’s never too early to secure new intel, especially since we’re in dire need.”
“So, a casual meet-and-greet?” Javin asked and looked at Claudia, who had sat on one of the couches.
Martin groaned. “There’s nothing casual about meeting the Iranians, Javin.”
Javin shook his head. Martin must have missed the sarcasm in Javin’s voice. “I understand, sir.”
“Good. Give Shirazi a call and set up a meet. Somewhere safe, neutral.”
“All right.”
“And I’ll have as much intel as I can get before the meet.”
“Forty-eight hours?”
“Yes, that should be sufficient.”
Claudia leaned closer to the phone. “Can we look into why the Iranians are so eager to get their hands on the Al-Qaeda pair?”
Javin nodded. “Yes, Shirazi called the spy swap a ‘mistake.’ I’m not sure if that was for show, or if it’s his personal opinion, but the Guard don’t think it was a good deal.”
“Yes, I’ll have someone work on that. I’m not sure how much we can find, but yes, it’s important to understand not just their objective—catch or kill the terrorists—but also the ‘why’ behind it.”
“Perfect,” Javin said. “I’ll call Shirazi and make plans.”
“And I’ll get in touch as soon as I have something. Be safe, Javin and Claudia, and make it home.”
“Will do, sir.”
When he had ended the call, Javin said to Claudia, “Ready to call Shirazi?”
